


give me a saint

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Character Study, FC Barcelona, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 06:32:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5901916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pep and Lucho through the years.</p><blockquote>
  <p>He catches Guardiola’s eye in the tunnel, with the vague notion that the other man’s been watching him. He offers him a smile, teeth and all, surprised and reassured when the other man smiles back, careful, but sincere. </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	give me a saint

**Author's Note:**

> I'm frequently overwhelmed by Lucho feels. Pep somehow sneaks in with Catalan poetry, because he's Pep.

  
  


When Lucho comes to Barcelona, things are difficult. People won’t meet his eyes and they watch him with suspicion, as if the sheer damming white of his former jersey is painted onto his skin, as if he’ll never be able to wash it off. He feels their eyes on his back everywhere he goes. Waiting for him to fail.

  
  


But it’s alright. He can be patient.

  
  


He puts on the  _ blaugrana _ jersey and pulls up his shoulders, listens to the boo’s with a smile on his face, lips stretched as far as they’ll go, showing teeth. If he doesn’t listen, how will he know when they turn into cheers?

  
  


He catches Guardiola’s eye in the tunnel, with the vague notion that the other man’s been watching him. He offers him a smile, teeth and all, surprised and reassured when the other man smiles back, careful, but sincere.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


Sometimes, he watches Pep from the corner of his eye. He looks more like a romantic poet than he does a footballer, and Lucho’s got a sneaking suspicion that that’s always been Pep’s backup career option, if the football thing hadn’t worked out. His hair is cut short, always vaguely like he’d cut it himself in a brooding fit, with no rhyme or reason. And then there’s his eyes, dark and deep, and they glitter when he speaks about something he’s passionate about.

  
  


He’s passionate about everything.

  
  


Lucho would know; he’s found himself engaged in several of Pep’s arguments over time sometimes about things that are actually important (like football), but most of the time about the mundane things that Pep feels strongly about (like flavors of jam and brands of coffee).

  
  


The rest of the squad has learned how to tune him out, mostly out of self preservation, because it’s curious that listening to Pep speak, you inevitably find that his preferences have become your preferences and his passions have found their place among your own. Lucho keeps listening anyway, from sheer stubbornness maybe, or to figure him out.

  
  


(One time, with one of Pep’s lectures still fresh in his mind, Lucho buys a jar of strawberry jam from the supermarket. The whole thing is stupid, considering that he always preferred apricot, and didn’t particularly care for jam either way. 

  
  


The jar stays in his cupboard, unopened, a source of rage every morning, where he stubbornly goes for oatmeal and fruit instead.

  
  


Except one day, after an afternoon training where Pep had looked almost infuriatingly handsome, Lucho cracks open the jar and smears it on a piece of toast, only to find, to his horror, that he likes it much better than apricot. 

  
  


He eats strawberry jam for breakfast for the rest of the month.)

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


It goes like this.

  
  


The Bernabeu is loud around him, as loud as he’s ever heard it, screaming still from Raul’s equalizer, and Lucho watches the white bodies celebrate, blurring into each other. He turns his back on them and there’s Figo, the bright armband contrasting sharply with their darker kit. Somewhat surprisingly, Lucho thinks about Pep, watching at home, clenching his fists and biting his lips like he does when he’s nervous and helpless.

  
  


Barely a minute later, the ball rebounds to his feet and he runs. The Bernabeu pitch opens up before him, green and awfully familiar. There’s three in white in front of him, and Canizares standing tall and steady. Lucho remembers practicing penalties against him in training.

  
  


He spots Figo from the corner of his eye, but then Hierro goes in for the tackle and suddenly the path is clear. He shoots, and the ball hits the back of the net with a hiss. And then he’s running, right in front of the Ultra’s, the one he knows have turned his name into an insult, the ones that howl it now like they never did when he was theirs.

  
  


He pulls on the edges of his jersey, the color on display. ‘Are you watching?’ he wants to say ‘Do you see? There’s no white left in me.’ And then the bodies of his teammates hit him, grabbing at his hands, his body, his head, and he doesn’t think about anything for a little while.

  
  


When he runs back into position, he catches Raul watching him with a self-righteous expression of the very young, and he gives him a grin that’s all teeth, thinking, viciously, ‘one day you’ll understand’.

  
  


(It goes like this: Patrick’s cross to his header and then Pep’s pass, the edge of perfection; Xavi’s cross, brilliant and precise, and Figo, dejected in white; the armband bright on his shoulder, the swish of the net and Zidane’s angry grimace.

  
  


It goes like this: Andres’s goal makes the Bernabeu howl in agony and he feels the echo of it in his bones.)

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


Pep pulls him aside, next training after that first match, looking concerned in a sincere way.

  
  


“You didn’t need to do that,” he says, hand on Lucho’s elbow, drawing him in closer so they won’t be overheard, “they’ll come around. You don’t need to be kissing the badge right away, I think they’ll understand.”

  
  


Lucho blinks at him, shakes his head. Pep’s eyes look liquid in the half-light, it derails his train of thought.

  
  


“It’s not about that,” he says finally, then grows quiet again. Pep watches him expectantly, but he’s got no way of explaining how it felt, the agonizing wait for his contract to run out, the hours on the bench, looking out at blinding pristine white.

  
  


He doesn’t know how to explain, to Pep, who’s always been the golden boy, about what it felt like to put on a rival’s shirt and call it freedom. He doesn’t even know if Pep understands the concept of revenge if it isn’t written in poem. 

  
  


He doesn’t really know Pep at all. 

  
  


“I’m probably going to do it again,” he offers, finally, startling a laugh out of Pep.

  
  


“Alright,” Pep says, “just don’t stand too close to the opposition next time, the Mister will be upset if you get hit with something and have to be taken off.”

  
  


“Ah, don’t worry! I’ve got a hard head,” Lucho says, grinning and tapping his index finger on his temple.

  
  


“I’m beginning to notice,” Pep says, wryly.

  
  


“What’s this?” Lucho laughs, suddenly genuinely delighted. “Does Golden Boy Pep Guardiola have a sense of humor? I thought it was all Dutch tactics and Catalan poetry with you!”

  
  


Pep releases his elbow and walks off, laughing. Lucho watches him go, a curious warmth in his chest.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


Drunk Pep is one of the best things that Lucho has ever seen.

  
  


Pep is lounging on the bar sofa, half sprawled on Figo and Rivaldo, occasionally giggling to himself. When he catches sight of Lucho, his expression brightens, openly appreciative in a way it usually isn’t.

  
  


“Lucho!” he yells out, “I need you to listen to this poem!  _ Deu-me una santa _ -”

  
  


At which point he attempts to stand up, presumably to deliver a full performace, but instead tumbles onto the floor with a resounding crack that prompts a round of hysterical laughter from the other members of the squad gathered in the VIP lounge of the bar.

  
  


“Careful there, Mr. Poet,” Lucho says, leaning down carefully to pull Pep onto his feet. They almost overbalance, because Pep is a giggling deadweight and because Lucho has also had a few somethings to drink. However, he is from the Asturias and knows how to handle his alcohol.

  
  


Finally, they’re both standing upright, arms around each other in an awkward embrace that leads to Pep nuzzling the side of Lucho’s face, and Lucho’s hand slipping dangerously close to his ass. 

  
  


Someone wolf-whistles and it sets them off into hysterics again.

  
  


Lucho finally manages to drag them over to one of the free sofas on the edge of the lounge, where they sprawl ungracefully, half on top of each other. Pep sighs into his neck, his skinny elbow pressing into Lucho’s side. He’s strangely light, as if he’d lost weight instead of gaining muscle. 

  
  


Pep murmurs something into the thin skin of his neck, his beard scratching gently, causing sparks under his skin, racing down his nerves, melting into his spine. He strains to hear what Pep is saying, but it’s slurred and unintelligible under the sound of the loud music in the background. It’s just as likely to be tactical plans as more Catalan poetry. So Lucho relaxes back into the leather cushion, lets his body go boneless under the steadying warmth of Pep’s weight.

  
  


He closes his eyes and enjoys the moment.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


It’s a fumble in the back of a fancy car, Lucho’s back pressed against the seats, scratching where his exposed skin touches the plastic. It’s Pep’s face, half-shadowed from the streetlight, darkness like a noose around his neck, his mouth slack and wet. 

  
  


It’s soft white sheets and the knobs of Pep’s spine under his fingertips, stark and strangely vulnerable. It’s Pep’s head resting on his inner thigh, gazing up at him with intense focus. It’s their shadows dancing on Lucho’s bedroom wall.

  
  


It isn’t love (that’s Barcelona), but it’s something (it’s enough).

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


Pep looks tired. 

  
  


He’s got bags underneath his eyes, and a faraway look that’s so uncharacteristic of him that Lucho can’t help himself. He pulls him into one of the numerous unoccupied conference rooms inside Camp Nou, pushing him down into a chair. 

  
  


“Okay, tell me what’s going on. Who do I have to yell at?” he asks, somewhat calmed by the small smile that gets him.

  
  


“Politics,” Pep said, shaking his head, “you know how it is. Or you will, next season when you’re captain.”

  
  


Lucho stills, struck momentarily speechless, watching Pep rub a weary hand over his eyes. 

  
  


“Captain?” he says softly.

  
  


“Maybe not this season, but the next one for sure,” Pep nods and Lucho gets the impression that he’s speaking mostly to himself.

  
  


“That’s impossible, because you’re going to still be captain next season,” Lucho said, somewhat desperately. “Right? Pep?”

  
  


“Hm?” Pep looks up, suddenly alert, as if waking from some great sleep. “Oh, no, I’m leaving. They’re announcing it tomorrow. I’m taking a break from playing.”

  
  


“And what are you going to do? Become a poet?” Lucho laughs incredulously. “You can’t just leave! Is it about the fans? The board? They’ll come around, you know they will, you know how much they love you. They know you’ve been loyal.”

  
  


“Loyalty means nothing, you know that better than most,” Pep shakes his head, smiling apologetically when he sees Lucho recoil. “Maybe I’ll become a poet after all. It’s always been my backup option.”

  
  


Lucho watches him, quietly. Pep looks out the window, where the glass gives way to the endless green stretch below. His shoulders are slumped, and for the first time in the harsh neons of the Camp Nou, he looks nothing more than human.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


Lucho sits on the couch of his empty apartment in Rome and watches FC Barcelona celebrate their historic Triplet. The camera pans to Pep, his dark eyes glittering and his expression open wonder, standing in the middle of the green, his arms extended to the sky. Around him, a sea of blaugrana with his name on their lips.

  
  


“I told you they would love you again,” Lucho mutters to himself, drinks the last of his wine and goes to bed.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


When Lucho comes to Barcelona again, it’s with a failure to his belt and to rumors that say he won’t last more than six months. All that he’s got, is his name and a coaching licence, and a desperate burning desire to win. 

  
  


“What kind of coach are you?” they ask him, and he hears what they don’t say:  _ ‘You’re too young, too inexperienced, you’re not a genius, you’re not Guardiola.’ _

  
  


“Well, I’m handsome, tall, likeable, Asturian…” he answers and they laugh, politely.

  
  


They ask, “but what about Pep?” 

  
  


He says:

  
  


“I’m aware there will be comparisons with Pep.”  _ There’s always been comparisons with Pep. I got used to it.  _

  
  


“I admire him and we’re in touch.”  _ Pep calls him and complains they don’t sell his favorite jam in Germany. Lucho’s sent him three boxes already.  _

  
  


“He has adapted great at his new club.”  _ Pep hates the food. And the lack of freedom in bringing in players. _

  
  


The journalists subside, shark stomachs cautiously appeased, still drawn to the smell of blood in the water. He’s just glad that they can’t read between the lines. Yet.

  
  


On his way to his new office, he pauses in the hallway. There’s a picture of Pep on the wall, young and thin, mouth split open in a smile with a Liga trophy hoisted above his head. His ghost is everywhere he turns in this place. 

  
  


There’s eyes around him from every corner, waiting for him to fall. He won’t, but they don’t know that. But that’s alright, they will.

  
  


He can be patient.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Notes on the fic:  
> \- Lucho came from Real Madrid to Barcelona on a free transfer in 1996  
> \- [Pep really likes Catalan poetry.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_SylHVXAMfA)  
> \- Lucho's first El Clasico goal for Barcelona was in 1997 at the Bernabeu. He ran to celebrate it in front of the Madrid Ultras on purpose, because he's a lil shit. Luis Figo was Barcelona's captain for that game, Pep was injured. Joes Canizares was then Real Madrid keeper, and Fernando Hierro did go for a tackle on Lucho right before he shot on goal.  
> \- Lucho's second and third El Clasico goals for Barcelona came from a 3:0 win at the Camp Nou in 1999. The first one was off a pass by Patrick Kluivert, the second off Pep's. At that time, Luis Figo already changed sides to play for Real Madrid. It was a big deal. A much bigger deal than Lucho's transfer.  
> \- The fourth goal was in 2000, scored off the most beautiful perfect long range pass from a very young Xavi Hernandez. [I mean perfect.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vDeYdJem5t8)  
> \- The fifth goal was in 2003, and Lucho already had the armband. Later on in this game, Zidane tried to rip his face off after they'd argued.  
> \- The first goal FC Barcelona scored in El Clasico with Lucho as manager was by Andres Iniesta. But that's a story on its own.  
> \- _Deu-me una santa-_ the poem that Pep starts to recite is a love poem by Joan Salvat-Papasseit, a Catalan poet. It's called Give me a saint and if you're so inclined you can read it (+translation) [here (scroll to page 59)](http://www.anglo-catalan.org/downloads/acsop-monographs/issue02.pdf). The title of this fic is also from there.  
>  \- Pep left Barcelona in 2001 after a dispute with the board. Instead of moving to another club, he took a break for a year where he hung out with various Catalan poets, writers and athletes. In short, he was a total hipster.  
> \- FC Barcelona won the treble in the 2009/10 season with Pep Guardiola as manager.  
> \- Lucho took over in 2014, after a failed stint as coach of Roma. The things he says in the press conference are literal transcriptions.  
> \- find me on [tumblr](https://neyvenger.tumblr.com/)


End file.
